Before I have a chance to so much as wipe off the horse poop that has made its way onto my boots, Emily hoists me up on Chocolates with the grace one might use to throw a sack of potatoes onto a shopping cart. The jarring action of my body tumbling into the saddle irritates my sensitive thoroughbred’s back. He raises his head in the air like a periscope and trots off in the same frantic pace with which he was prepared.
Now Erica IS speechless.
And I’m screwed.
DAY ONE
A lot of people mistake Geoff Maurice for a mean old man on an ego trip. They wonder why any equestrian would subject herself to so much verbal abuse at the steep price of five hundred dollars an hour. But while Geoff may lack concern for his students’ feelings, the man knows how to get the best out of any rider tough enough to endure his criticism. I’ll never forget the time he called one of the country’s top equitation riders an “incompetent fool” for misunderstanding the approach he asked her take to a fence. Word got out on the Internet and recreational riders from across the country demanded he be banned from ever teaching our fragile youth again.
What they didn’t realize was that the incompetent fool wasn’t offended at all. She just had the best lesson of her life with a man who could not care less who her daddy is or what his money can buy. He didn’t treat her like some kind of delicate flower too spoiled to hear the truth. By the end of the lesson, that incompetent fool rode better than she ever had in her entire life.
Five years later, she can’t wait to get back into the ring to ride with him again.
Here I am, that incompetent fool, back in Geoff Maurice’s arena, ready to try my heart out. Only this time, I’m sitting on a tense and confused horse that would rather canter in place than execute a nice, relaxed trot.
Mr. Maurice takes one look at us and turns the volume up on his megaphone to ten. “Girl with the muddy boots…TrrrrrrROT!!! I said TRRRROT!” It takes every ounce of determination I have to make Chocolates transition into a gait almost resembling the trot. It’s horrible. And when Geoff Maurice bellows at the top of his seventy-five-year-old lungs, “NOT like that. Not like a sewing machine. That’s not how you trot. This is not a home economics CLASS,” I can’t help but feel that he is being kind.
Margaret Fletcher has never been one to give up when the going gets tough. I sit deep into the saddle, carefully wrapping my legs around Chocolates’ barrel, trying to encourage him to soften his body.
With the anger of a drill sergeant reprimanding a difficult cadet, my childhood idol screams into his megaphone, “Why are you humping your saddle like a confused eighteen-year-old boy? It’s not going to buy you dinner!”
And then I hear the Boss’s familiar laugh amongst the sea of auditors. Who invited him? I didn’t invite him. Did Emily invite him? Oh, I know. Erica invited him! That little scheming tramp. It’s not enough for her to make sure that I embarrass myself in front of everyone in the equestrian world who actually matters. No, she has to make sure everyone at Winning Edge also has an opportunity to see me looking like a fool. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating when Geoff Maurice interrupts the onset of my panic attack by screaming, “PAY ATTENTION! I don’t have TIME for you if you don’t PAY ATTENTION in my arena! You are not good enough to NOT pay attention! Beezie Madden doesn’t have to pay attention. McClain Ward doesn’t have to pay attention. You and your muddy boots MUST pay attention!”
A lightning bolt of panic courses through my body, traveling through the delicate French leather of my Hermes saddle, striking Chocolates’ sensitive back and causing him to bolt around the arena like someone just lit his tail on fire.
“STOP! Girl with the muddy boots, STOP!”
I have absolutely no control of Chocolates at this point, but Geoff Maurice does. The authoritative tone of his voice could stop a runaway freight train in its tracks. On Chocolate’s screeching halt, Mr. Maurice demands, “You stand there. STAND and WATCH how you trrrOT a HORSE! Watch how you cannnnTER a horse! Watch how you jumP a horse!” And with that, the riding part of my lesson comes to an end before it has a chance to officially start.
One hour later, however, I’m still praying for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Every time Erica’s horse canters by, she covers me and Chocolates with a fresh coat of arena dirt. I’m sure we blend in quite well with our surroundings by now. I should be annoyed, but I’m grateful for the camouflage. Maybe Geoff won’t realize that we’re still here?
But then, for the first time in an hour, he turns his attention from Erica’s beautiFUL riding to acknowledge my presence. “Now, you. Tomorrow you will prepare BETTER. You will present yourself BETTER and you will ride BETTER!!! You think I don’t remember who you are. I know who you are. I reMEMBER who you are. YOU’RE the one who doesn’t remember who you ARE! Dismissed!”
IT TAKES EVERY OUNCE OF STRENGTH to keep my composure in the few minutes required to exit the arena. When Emily asks me if I need help, I don’t dare answer her for fear that my voice will crack and a flood of tears will come out. She gets the hint. I need time alone with my pony, the pony I just let down in front of the most important man in the entire equestrian world. There’s an empty box stall at the end of the barn aisle. I usher Chocolates inside, close the Dutch door, and press my face into his neck crying as hard as I did the day my last pony sold to the highest bidder.
I hear the sound of a gentle knock on the door. I highly doubt I can get away with pretending that nobody’s home. Even if I could, Chocolates has already nudged the door open, revealing the Boss. He gives me a sympathetic look and says, “Tough day at the office?”
The single tear sliding down my cheek says it all, and the Boss is sensitive enough to drop the line of questioning. He asks if I can meet him back at Winning Edge in an hour. Sure. Why not? What else am I going to do with the rest of my day?
I dry my tears, drop Chocolates off at Green Acres and hustle over to Winning Edge Farms. My Tailored Sportsmans are trashed. I’m covered in dirt, sweat and tears.
But I don’t even bother to shake the alfalfa from my hairnet. It’s time to stop pretending that I’m someone I haven’t been in years.
BACK AT WINNING EDGE, I find the Boss alone in the barn grooming a brown colt named KK Matty K. Apparently, some deadbeat owed the Boss money and gave him this horse instead. One look at the scrawny colt standing before me and I conclude that a smarter man would have written off the debt. At least Chocolates is pretty. This guy? He might be able to get a job working as a scarecrow on some poor farmer’s field after he flames out on the track. Which, judging by his shaky conformation, should happen pretty soon. But if the Boss wants me to gallop this horse, I’ll gallop the horse. Who am I to turn my nose up at anyone or anything at this point in my life? I hand the Boss my favorite exercise saddle and help him tack up my charge.
“So, Princess, I heard you met my old friend Sara.” I’m guessing “old friend” is code for ex-girlfriend. Whatever, Boss. Your past is your past and my future sucks. Let’s stick to the task at hand and keep our personal stories to ourselves today.
But for reasons I don’t understand, the Boss turns into a Chatty Cathy. “Did she say anything to you about me?” (Clearly, he is still obsessed with Sara.)
The old Margaret Fletcher would have pressed for more information. But the new Margaret Fletcher doesn’t show up for clinics on time, polish her boots properly or care about other people’s problems. So I remain silent on the matter.
Matty is dressed to run, and the Boss gives me a leg up. Two seconds ago, I was ready to get down to business and get out of here. But there is something about the way that man grips a girl’s thigh that can lighten even the most stubborn of moods. Maybe I shouldn’t give up on what might be a juicy love story so quickly. I’m not exactly in a position to turn my nose up at a cheap source of entertainment.
So I cautiously dip my toe into scandalous waters. “Come to think of it, Boss, Sara did get very excited when I mentioned your name. Maybe she is still in
love with you.”
But I’m not getting the reaction I was looking for. Instead of pushing for more information on Sara’s latent desire, the Boss just walks along in silence as Matty and I make our way to the track.
Not one to enjoy long uncomfortable silences, I make a joke about inviting Sara to the clinic tomorrow in the hopes that the useless tart he calls a girlfriend starts a catfight in front of Geoff Maurice.
The Boss warns me to, “Tread carefully, Princess,” but the playful tone in his voice confirms that he is charmed by my unabashed persistence.
So I continue. “Come on, Boss, I need a distraction right now. Throw me a bone. Tell me that you’re still in love with Sara and this whole Erica thing is just one big joke.”
He flashes a mischievous smile and says, “You need a distraction, huh? How about another half-naked jog around the property to clear your head?” Clearly, someone is STILL thinking about my cotton-clad bottom sprinting across the farm. I crack my first genuine smile of the day.
We arrive at the track and before I have a chance to jog off with Matty, the Boss puts his strong hand on my thigh to stop me. “Sara is not my ex-girlfriend. Back in high school, I had a bit of a reputation for going after you Hunter Princess types and she used to give me a hard time about it.” Had a reputation for going after Hunter Princess types? Who does he think he’s dating now? A Rodeo Queen? I snort involuntary at the Boss’s hilarious lack of self-awareness.
“My sister showed on the circuit,” he continues, “What can I say? I was popular with the girls. Sara liked to say that I got passed around the Hunter/Jumper scene more times than the twenty-year-old pony every girl wants to ride at her first show.”
So the Boss has a thing for us Hunter Princesses. I suppose that would be good news if he wasn’t already shackled to our least attractive representative. The buzz from our little back-and-forth wears off, and I remember that I’m not a Hunter Princess anymore. A Hunter Princess would have showed up to that clinic on time, clean, polished and prepared to impress. She wouldn’t have made a complete fool of herself, only to be forced to suffer the humiliating fate of standing in the corner of the arena with a dunce cap on her head while the real riders got to work.
No. I’m a scruffy little Gallop Girl now. Erica Lewis is the true Hunter Princess. So, Boss, I guess you picked the right girlfriend, after all. All right, let’s get this sucker galloped so I can go home to my crappy apartment and cry into a nice big tub of lederbalsam.
To my delight, Matty wastes no time getting with the program. He calmly walks to the track like he’s been doing this his whole life. When I ask for the jog, I’m surprised to discover a pleasant, workmanlike gait that is a pleasure to ride. This fellow is all business. After an afternoon of dealing with a lunatic that refuses to comply with even the most simple of requests, I find Matty’s attitude refreshing. You know what, buddy, there’s more to life than just being pretty. Sure, you’ll never be a show pony. But what’s so great about all that crap anyway?
I think I’ve got a good feel for this horse. I’m ready for a fun little gallop around the track. So I turn Matty around. Before I have a chance to bridge my reins, a monster explodes. It’s the most terrifying, fire-breathing gallop I have ever experienced in my entire life. Matty is propelling himself forward with the determination of a war horse charging into battle, and I’m pretty sure nothing short of a nuclear bomb would stop him. Three seconds into this ride and my biceps are already screaming for mercy. I am not strong enough to hold this horse-shaped rocket launcher for much longer.
I should be terrified.
But for reasons I can’t explain, I’m not.
I thought I knew what bravery was. I thought I knew what boldness felt like. But I have never felt anything like KK Matty K. Only three years old and he already knows he’s a champion. Every muscle in his body is telling me, I know who I am. I know what I can do. Take me wherever you want and I will always be the best one there. This horse doesn’t know that he was bought for nothing at a no-name auction somewhere far, far away from Kentucky. He doesn’t know that he’s small, scrawny and not much to look at. Or that a horse with his mediocre pedigree and wonky conformation shouldn’t be this good.
All he knows is that he loves to run fast, and he does it better than anyone else in the barn.
Just try to tell me different. I dare you.
CHAPTER 14
~ Emily discovers there is more to Margaret Fletcher than meets the eye ~
I show up at Green Acres half expecting to find Margaret passed out in a pile of well-conditioned strap goods. I probably shouldn’t have left her alone after we unloaded Chocolates yesterday. But Uncle Sam took one look at her gently caressing that overpriced wool cooler that is of absolutely no use to anyone this time of year and said, “She just needs some time alone with her plastic ponies.”
I have no idea what he meant by that. But it doesn’t sound like something a girl should do in the company of someone she’s just getting to know. Besides, pointing out that I told her so probably wouldn’t be all that helpful right now and I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t be able to help myself. Not that I’m looking for Margaret to fail. I just think the whole embarrassing situation could have been avoided if she had shown a little restraint when Erica egged her on to accept this completely insurmountable challenge.
Uncle Sam refuses to acknowledge the error of Margaret Fletcher’s impetuous ways. He lets me finish complaining and then says, “That girl isn’t afraid to get flour all over the kitchen. You need to pay attention because you could learn something.” Once again, nothing he says makes any kind of sense. And I’m beginning to regret asking him to come along today for moral support.
It’s not like I actually expect Margaret to show up for a second day of emotional torture anyway. I bet she’s locked up in her apartment, playing My Little Pony on her couch.
Turns out I’m wrong. Far from being tangled up in well-oiled French leather, Margaret is awake, alert and briskly sweeping out the same stock trailer she couldn’t bring herself to touch the day before. Little Miss Fancy Breeches is wearing a crisp pair of jeans, a “perfectly pressed polo shirt” and a brand new pair of deerskin work gloves. I’m not sure what to make of the outfit. I can’t imagine she plans to present herself in front of a man of Geoff Maurice’s caliber in jeans. I hope she’s not expecting me to take her place in the irons today. Because I am NOT as quick to make a fool of myself as some people.
On closer inspection, I can see that Margaret’s hair is tightly wrapped in “hunter hair” with that overpriced helmet of hers perched on top of her head. I guess it looks like she’s ready to return to the scene of the crime, after all.
A smile spreads across Uncle Sam’s face, “See, kid, I told you this one’s got spunk. She doesn’t give up easily like you do.”
I decide to ignore Uncle Sam’s not even thinly-veiled insult. Spunk! Please, I think we both know this one probably had one too many Grand Marniers for breakfast. Mix in the toxic fumes from that overpriced lederbalsam she loves so much and I bet Margaret Fletcher doesn’t even know where she is right now.
I make sure to get a whiff of Margaret’s breath as she barks, “Come on Emily, let’s hustle. We wouldn’t want a repeat of yesterday would we?”
It smells like decaf coffee and English muffins. She’s lucid. I suppose that’s a good thing. But I hope Margaret isn’t under the impression that the ONLY thing that went wrong yesterday is that she was a little late for her lesson. Poor Chocolates was in way over his head. There was NO WAY someone like Geoff Maurice was going to take him seriously. And he didn’t.
I think the prudent thing to do right now would be to slow things down and examine the situation more closely. But Uncle Sam already has Chocolates’ legs wrapped. And from the looks of Margaret’s determined stride, there’s no stopping her from loading that horse onto my trailer.
All right, fine. Here we go again.
CHAPTER 15
~ Margaret
Gets Redemption ~
DAY TWO
Today is a new day. I know who I am. I know what I can do. I may be small, scrawny and not much to look at. My pedigree may have lost its stature and I work at a no-name farm for chicken scraps. But none of that matters to me anymore. Because I love to jump horses. You can take me wherever you want and I will always be the best one there. Just try to tell me different. I dare you.
I WALK INTO THE ARENA with my boots perfectly polished and my horse properly warmed up, ready to show the world what we can do. I’m not there five minutes when Geoff barks, “Let me see the girl who gave me so much trouble yesterday. You! Give me your horse.”
With that, I am instructed to hop off Chocolates and hand over the reins to Mr. Maurice. So much for showing the world what I can do. I don’t even have to look up to see Erica’s smug expression as Geoff Maurice mounts my horse, preparing to show me how it’s done.
“Watch me CANter this horse. Watch me TRRROT this horse. Ohhhh, this is a hot horse. This is an intelligent horse. Not like your horse, Erica. Your horse is duller. Slowwwwer to reACT. A horse like this requires patience he needs to be ridden with TACT!”
I’ll admit that getting kicked off Chocolates before my lesson even had a chance to start stung. But watching the Chef d’Equipe of the US Show Jumping team get runaway with in much the same manner I did twenty-four hours earlier eases my suffering. Geoff coos, “Ooohh this one is HOT. He needs to learn to accept my legs BETTER. He needs to learn how to accept my hands BETTER.”
Twenty minutes later, that’s exactly what Chocolates is doing. I’m getting the distinct impression that Geoff Maurice is actually having fun riding my horse. “This is a horse. This is a horse that requires a RIDER, not a PASSENGER. Not like your horse, Erica. You are a PASSENGER on that horse of yours!”
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 12